Interview with a Death Eater
by Smerby
Summary: An interview with imprisoned Death Eater, Severus Snape, leads to some unexpected discoveries.
1. Chapter 1

**Note:** So! I've had this story half-written for well on five years, and I figured (after dealing with some nasty business at other archives) that… hell… I'd put it up here! If you're expecting my usual fuckwit parody/humor, expect to get it in very small doses, if at all. This is a Hermione/Snape ship, with an idea I'd had for ages. The initial title and set-up are inspired by Anne Rice (I hardly think she owns the concept of an interview, but, well… I know how Anne Rice is about anything of hers in "fan fiction," so I offer this as a disclaimer). Otherwise, characters and world all belong to J.K. Rowling. Story is taking place (obviously AU) post HBP. Slight bits of DH will be factored in, as well.

* * *

My initial thought upon stepping foot on the island was that, even without the Dementors, Azkaban was wholly uninviting.

I bid the Ministry ferryman a good day, the prim wizard just shaking his head and shivering as he enchanted the boat to sail away. For obvious reasons, neither port keys nor apparition worked in taking anyone to (or from) the foreboding rock.

Luckily, I would have the option of returning to whomever would ferry me back to the mainland… the perk of being a (relatively) innocent wizard, handpicked to capture perhaps the biggest story since the report on The Great Battle. If I had been anything but a Daily Prophet intern at the time ("Milk with your tea, sir?"), I could have had my name linked to the highest selling issue of the Prophet… ever.

Nevertheless, I've certainly earned my respect in the last few years, with the expose done on He-Who…Voldemort. The public went mad over knowing he was an essentially inbred half-blood! With the peace of knowing he was well and truly dead, the public went wild, turning the deceased monster into a joke. How had such a dumb oaf come to power? How we all laughed! The public is always so easily swayed.

The Prophet, which I constantly fought to ensure my expose go unedited, was primed to fire me after the outrage they expected at "blaspheming all those who died in the two wars." I, of course, spun my story not as a chastisement of people dying for and at the hands of such a wizard, but rather, made people remember the man not in fear, but in humor. Why, effigies of Voldemort arose shortly after my story broke, all made clownish, many of which were torched as witches and wizards drunkenly celebrated.

Needless to say, I was quickly promoted. The day Rita Skeeter got passed over for my current story… well, that was very nearly one of the best days of my life. Her nails went unpainted and chipped for a week, her own personal form of mourning.

Which lead me to Azakaban: a large, barren island of cold, gray rocks. The winding path to the absolute monstrosity of a prison was about a fifteen minute walk. Every step I took led to further and further feelings of cold and depression.

Apparently, even though the Dementors had long been gone since their near-extinction during the last war, their tenure as guards still left a mark.

By the time I was at the small gate that served as the only entrance into the large gray building, I felt near tears.

Flashing my Prophet identification, the guard (munching on a wriggling chocolate frog) ushered me into a room that looked very much like a candy store.

"Take your pick," the bored-looking wizard said, gesturing to the shelves of varying chocolate bars. Picking a purple wrapped bar from France, I felt instantly better after wolfing it down.

Without prompting, the guard explained, "Dementors bein' here for years means we still get the effects for years. Some Magical Creatures analyst said we should expect the doom and gloom feeling around here to be gone in the next twenty years. Can't say I'll miss the chocolate." At this last statement, the guard patted his slightly rotund stomach.

I cracked a grin and made my way into the next room.

In this rather more austere "office," I met the warden who greeted me excitedly. Apparently my reputation proceeded me.

"I can't tell you how excited we are at Azkaban to be a part of your story! We're hoping the Ministry will pay us a little more mind, you know. Some of us haven't had a vacation in years!"

I nodded awkwardly, wondering if they had actually gotten the Ministry missive allowing the Prophet's interview. I would be doing very little coverage on the actual prison.

As if reading my mind, the excitable wizard (who I understood to be an auror from back in the days of Grindelwald) continued the conversation, noting, "But we're of course all the more eager to see your interview. He never says a word, and none of us get a crack out of him. I have to admit there's some bets circulating on your success!"

I gave a half-smile, increasingly annoyed by the old wizard. Probably a Gryffindor or Hufflepuff of some sort.

"Well, I shouldn't waste your time. I know you only have the day, so let's get on with it," the warden said, grabbing a key and a file and walking me through the heavily padlocked and charmed door. I could literally feel the magic, like a cloying pressure, as I crossed the barrier into the prison.

I fully realized how large the prison was; the smooth gray stone walkway seemed endless. Wizard guards paced, wands and, surprisingly, whips at the ready.

Seeing my eyes lock on a nearby guard's whip, the warden responded to my silent question: "Ministry lets us use it for, uh, certain prisoners. We have some, ah, less than human prisoners in here…"

I grimaced as the warden continued to lead me to my intended target.

Each cell had three "walls" composed of exposed bars, with the remaining wall smooth and gray stone. Many cells had simply a chair, a cot and a chamber pot. Some, with the angrier, louder prisoners, had nothing. Some cells were completely closed off, only a small windowed door breaking up the enclosed spaces. I assumed they were highly dangerous, or insane. What a cheery place.

By the time we reached the cell of my intended story, I was aware enough of the trends of the prison cells to be surprised. We were in the back corner, with no guards and completely empty cells nearby. They had removed this prisoner as far as possible, it seemed.

"Well, here we are!" The warden said, smile in place as if expecting me to fail and us to laugh about it afterwards over a pint.

"Ah, yes, thank you," I said, taking out my quill and stack of parchment. The door opened to where the wizard in question sat, hands and feet magically chained to a chair in front of a table. An empty chair across the table was presumably for me.

The warden bounced back and forth on his feet, his dragon-hide boots making an irritating tapping sound. I gave him an expectant look.

"Ah! Yes, well, I have prison matters to attend. Guards will periodically patrol by, as necessary in their rounds. Your chocolate bar wrapper serves as an alarm to any danger should you tap it twice. His chains also alert us to come if they extend their maximum reach; can't have him moving around too much with you in here! You are perfectly safe!"

I glanced down at the wrapper still in my hand, all but forgotten in the perusal of the prison. The prisoner sat, impassive, as this conversation unfolded.

"Well, good luck!"

The warden chuckled to himself as he quickly shut and spelled the door, winking at me before briskly walking away.

I found it funny that I felt more at ease with a convicted Death Eater and murderer than I did with the overly-perky warden, apparently forever high on chocolate.

Sitting down in the chair and pulling it up to the table, I set my quill and parchment on the aged wood. When I was settled, I looked up at the man who had remained stoically silent and unexpressive.

"Severus Snape, I presume?"

The wizard across from me slowly raised a corner of his mouth.

* * *

**Note:** Again, not my usual stuff here. I appreciate you taking a read! This story is about 1/3 complete, so expect somewhat regular updates; I'm not planning to string people along as I have through so many HG/SS fics (though I may have done so on my other HG/SS, "How it Feels to be Alive," so… woops!). Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

"I'm going to be asking you some questions, if that's alright."

Obviously, I cared little for his approval. His smirk simply quirked higher.

"Perhaps we could start very simplistically? Perhaps with a date of birth, your middle name…?"

Of course, I had this information, the consummate researcher that I am. I asked the question purely to see if he would respond.

A few moments passed while Snape's smirk held.

I had certainly encountered people reluctant to interview. Witches refusing to answer questions about their cheating husbands in the ministry, followed by said wizards threatening to hex me. However, that was not the time nor the place to try anything… aggressive.

Luckily, I had quite the wand up my sleeve.

"Ah, I was afraid you wouldn't want to talk today, Mr. Snape… or should I call you Severus?"

He predictably made no reply.

"No matter. I believe I'm aware of some information that may spark your interest."

Still smirking at what he probably felt was my idiocy, I returned a sneer in kind.

"I know why you're truly in Azkaban, Mr. Snape."

I had to look closely to notice, but his smirk ever so slightly faltered. Excellent.

"Yes! You probably didn't think I knew that. In fact, that is part of my purpose here."

Snape, his hair long and a black that seemed to absorb any light, his muscles tense but unmoving, and his eyes as guarded as they had been since I entered, let his smirk drop further, but still did little to respond.

Understandably, he could have thought I was bluffing.

I stuck a hand into my robes, rustling around in the enchanted space to pull out a roll of parchment. With the scroll came a dusty smell, the kind of not wholly unpleasant stench of a library. I raised my eyes to briefly catch Snape's less guarded smirk of interest. In his own fashion, he was hooked.

I unrolled the parchment, the slightly yellowed paper unrolling until it reached the edge of the table in front of Snape. His eyes flicked downward briefly, failing to examine the minute writing that filled the page. I smirked, tapping the end of the parchment with my wand and muttered, "Reveal yourself." Words suddenly filled the small blank space.

_Severus Tobias Snape. _

_The House of Prince._

_Birth: 9 January 1960._

_Guilty of Sexual Deviancy, 1__st__ Degree. _

_Guilty of Inappropriate Conduct with a Student, 1__st__ Degree. _

_Guilty of Sexual Conduct with a Student, 1__st__ Degree._

_Guilty of Sexual Relations with an Underage Witch, 3__rd__Degree._

Snape's eyes, emotionless, stared at the end of the parchment for a heavy moment.

"Funny how they seemed to get you on everything they could, couldn't they? Sexual deviancy? That's a conviction that was more suited to Aberforth Dumbledore than you, I'd say. Underage sex with a witch, 3rd degree? It's a very obscure wizarding rule not adhered to very often; the purebloods on the Wizengamot always overlooked it when their marriages were concerned. On top of that, I had to do a bit of date searching to figure out how they even got you on that one; couldn't wait a month till her birthday, eh?"

Snape's jaw was visibly tight, his cheeks sucked in slightly to try and belie the evident tension.

"What's particularly fascinating to me is that only a simple charm was disguising your true charge. Poor work on the Wizengamot's part, really. One need only investigate the dates of 'evidence' and events to figure out that you getting locked up for Dumbledore's death just didn't make sense. Obviously, they didn't think anyone would be appealing on your behalf. Not too many people like you."

He snorted.

I was pleased to see a nearly verbal reaction. I had thought that revealing to Snape that I knew more about him than, Merlin, most of Wizarding Britain, could go one of two ways: Snape would become even more reserved or… not.

Luckily, I saw the latter in our future.

"You see, Mr. Snape, your interview may transform into something of a biting critique on the injustices being performed by the Wizengamot. Since…ah… Dumbledore's loss on the court, Umbridge in the Chief position has left the public rankling. Scrimgeour unduly influences the court as a blatant abuse of power; he's just as corrupt as Fudge ever was. Needless to say, elections are coming up… and I may be attempting to swing the Prophet's endorsement to Shacklebolt."

Throughout my flurry of words, Snape remained impassive. However, he was listening intently; he was interested, of that I was sure.

"I think we could begin our interview, if you'd like?" I said, hoping the non-sequitor could perhaps shock him into verbiage.

Unsurprisingly, Snape was more cautious than that. He simply regarded me with slightly narrowed eyes.

I had one more trump card to play.

"I understand that the, ah, student you were involved with went missing after the Final Battle."

Ah, there was that jaw tension again.

"I did a bit of research. I can easily see why the Ministry told the public you went in for Dumbledore's murder; obviously, that would predispose the public against you… further. Nevermind that his will left Minerva McGonagall certain Pensieve memories to be released to the Wizengamot should you be placed under trial. To think! Everyone thinks you're fairly in Azkaban for something you were not even charged with."

Snape was cocking his head slightly, eyes even more narrowed than before. I assumed he was unaware that anyone knew the truth; surely being locked away on an island, where all known opinion on the outside was for a singular lie, would leave one rather prone to mistrust.

"But on more research… I was rather surprised at the student. Harry Potter has championed her name as a hero; there are plans for a statue to be erected of her at Hogwarts! To think, a hero of war who was barely 18 is the reason you're sitting in front of me."

Snape gritted his teeth.

"Hermione Granger and Severus Snape! Who could have predicted such a pair?" I said, nearly gleeful at revealing my dirty "scoop," even if the knowledge was well known to the prisoner in front of me. It was that untamable journalist's spirit within me.

For a long moment, Snape regarded me slowly, his narrow eyes slowly scanning my face. I shifted my eyes briefly, suddenly nervous that my mind could be invaded. I had heard Snape had been a skilled Legilmens; surely he couldn't do such a skill without a wand?

Just as my discomfort at a possible invasion of my thoughts began to peak, Snape cleared his throat.

I couldn't help but stare, visibly excited. I was met with a disdainful glair from the pale prisoner in front of me.

With a voice that was deep and scratchy, as if he could only cough his words after years of remaining silent, Snape muttered as smoothly as he could.

"What do you wish to know?

* * *

**Note:** In the next chapter, we'll have slightly more set-up, then get into the meat of the story, and a predominantly Snape perspective. Thanks for all the reviews so far, I appreciate them! I hate to be that fanfic author, but I have to ask... please review? So many of you subscribed me to your story and author alerts, I was floored, but I'd love hearing from you; feedback is what makes plot bunnies grow into healthy, well-adjusted rabbits. Really, though, I hope to see reviews from all of you who are observing this story from afar! Next chapter should be up next week.


	3. Chapter 3

"I suppose we could start wherever you want. I am allotted the entire day with you, so if you feel as if that is sufficient time, you could start from, well, the beginning?"

Snape's nostrils flared. "I hardly think I need to regale you with my entire life story. Surely you, and no one else, cares about how a wizard was routinely beaten for the first fifteen years of his life by a pitiful Muggle."

I nodded, though curious at this revelation. Troubled childhood actually _would_ make for an interesting story…

"I suppose I could start with the beginning of… my affair," Snape said with a strange inflection on the last portion of the sentence. His voice sounded slightly smoother, as if his throat was remembering what else it could do besides swallow down water and bread.

His voice was one of the more surprising things to me. I had never had Snape in school, having been on scholarship to Venificus Academy in America, but I had heard enough about him from my siblings and my peers. The man was supposed to have a voice deep enough for you to _feel_, especially when on the receiving end of his belligerence.

But this man's voice had apparently atrophied like the rest of him.

"Shall I start?" said voice queried, sarcasm all but spitting with the question.

Nodding and readying my quill, I began my interview with Severus Tobias Snape, Death Eater.

Imprisoned on Multiple Counts of Inappropriate Conduct with Hermione Jean Granger.

* * *

_Snape_

It would seem trite to say it all started with a dream, but then, what is life but not a trite piece of shit?

I don't imagine you can publish that.

Nonetheless, it all started with nothing so primitive as a particularly… affecting… dream of which _she_ was central. I had never once considered the girl before the dream; simply acknowledged her as too abrasive… always talking, always expanding an intellect I found unbecoming on someone that young. But attraction? Never.

That summer night at what was Order headquarters, I had the dream and awoke impossibly distracted at the vividness of the dream. The vividness was not the worst part; the dream left me feeling not only deeply aroused, but also… feeling some strange sense of possibility. As if the dream was not simply a dream, though it most obviously was. I spent days wondering if there was some sort of Legilimency at work, but that was impossible. Neither the Headmaster nor the Dark Lord had ever broken through my mind, both when awake or asleep.

A thought had bothered me at the time. I am no Sybill Trelawney; I am a scientist. Nonetheless, my… past, has left me with an inability to brush off omens, visions, prophecies. I admit, I was… apprehensive of the odd feelings that lingered after the dream.

I quickly dissuaded myself of this thought by… relieving the odd feelings in the shower. I don't imagine you'll publish that either.

Thus, I had thought it would be nothing. Simply a disturbing dream that left me with a problem I had quickly taken care of.

However, I still found myself thinking about the dream for the entire week of that muggy August.

It was almost her sixth year.

She, with the other members of the blasted cliché of the "Golden Trio," had been otherwise occupied the whole summer. Dumbledore frequently was gone for long periods of time, presumably to help the barely legal children. No one else in the Order was privy to their whereabouts to protect any leaks of information.

Did I take this as mistrust in me? No. Despite my earlier comment to you, I knew that we couldn't even afford the possibility of certain classifiable knowledge to slip in an Occlumency probe of Voldemort's. With that silent imperative, I made sure to rid my mind of the three as much as possible, leaving only feelings of annoyance and hatred towards the figures when my mind was invaded during increasingly called meetings of the Death Eaters. Feeling irritated and disgusted at the three was perhaps the easiest task of my spying career.

It annoyed me that I couldn't rid the strange… no, _perverse_… interest in her. I found myself almost obsessed with wondering why this dream had power over me. Not even the most horrible dreams had left me pondering them for nearly a week. And I… am quick to obsession. It is a fault of mine.

Unfortunately, I had not the time to work through my, ah, conflictions.

The trio returned that Friday.

They seemed ridiculously joyous for having been on what must have been incredibly dangerous, even for them. Weasley, as he showed, had a deep scar running across his freckled pectoral muscles. Potter's jet black hair had highly premature grays silvered throughout if one looked closely.

It was she I never should have observed, as I stood behind the throng who hugged and kissed the children as if they had been gone for years instead of three months.

She appeared unscarred, at least. It bothered me that I took any notice at all.

Her hair had thinned a great deal, as extreme stress is prone to do. It also bothered me that I now found her hair striking rather than repulsive.

Her eyes, a deep brown that seemed colored by the immense wisdom one cannot learn from a book, looked at me.

And forever will I regret that I looked back, our eyes locking.

For she had smiled.

The week leading to their return to Hogwarts was, at best, a flurry and at worst, a party. Too many people in the small house left to Potter. Too much happiness for the return of the trio. Too much sparkle in Dumbledore's eye, particularly as he had been failing to make eye contact with me

He was hiding something.

I observed that he would not reveal his left hand by the second day of his return with the children. As he noticed my notice, he began to quietly avoid me as much as possible. Highly unusual behavior; he knew I'd detect something amiss immediately.

My last week of the holiday was thus left alone in a house where it was impossible to be alone. And so, I stayed in my rooms for the duration of the week.

That August 31st, as I prepared to return to the school, I heard a knock on the door of my "room" at Grimmauld Place.

It could be only one person.

"Severus? May I come in?"

I remained silent, knowing that the old wizard would enter if he wished, no matter my words. Someone should have made the man a vampire.

Ushering himself in with one hand still disguised, Dumbledore shut the door behind him. The tension in the air was palpable, and I could not decide if I was miserable or relieved that he was there.

I stood up from the chair in which I had been reading, crossing my arms expectantly.

He looked at me, receiving no more than my customary hard stare and bowed his head sadly.

"Severus…"

He paused for what seemed like five minutes.

"…I have a grave favor to ask of you."

* * *

**Note:** So, as you can see, the story will now be told first-person from Snape's perspective. As per some questions in reviews, Hermione is almost seventeen in this story (the legal age of adulthood in the Wizarding World, and frankly, many other places). With that being said, there is still more to the "age" issue that will be revealed in time with the story… but I guarantee, none of you will be reading anything illegal! With that being said, stay tuned; in the next chapter, we will plunge into the affair with lemons, limes, and all sorts of fabulous citrus fruits.

As always, thanks to those of you who have reviewed! I sincerely hope I will hear from more of you! I smile every time I see this story, or myself, put on a FF alert… but long to hear what you're actually thinking of the story! Reviews really are the caffeine to a fanfic writer's writing, so please review!


	4. Chapter 4

**Warning: **LEMONS AHEAD!

* * *

Fury.

Fury. Fury. Fury.

Rarely do I lose my composure as I did after that meeting. Of course, you're aware of what transpired if you've viewed the records? You've seen the memories?

Good. I need not explain the specifics.

Needless to say… I was not happy with the old man's proposal.

I had silenced the room and bellowed as loud as I could, kicking a chair so hard that it splintered in several spots.

It was not enough; I needed more release.

It had been very late at night. I expected to be able to attain some antiqued alcohol in the Black cellar, not be disturbed by anyone, and certainly not give the liquor the savoring it deserved. I wanted to be as numb as possible, or as drunk as possible, for any further violence I decided to commit.

To my surprise, someone else seemed to have a similar idea.

Down the long, dusty stairs into the dungeon (as it was decorated with various macabre pieces, including manacles; typical Black lack of subtlety), I noticed a dim light in a corner near various casks.

Not saying a word, my anger slightly subdued by piqued interest, I quietly made my way to what appeared to be Fire Whiskey casked as far back as 1400.

The hair was unmistakable.

Hermione Granger, don in a flimsy nightdress that, as she bent over, gave me full view of the small white undergarments she was wearing, was clutching her arms from the damp cold of the cellar and perusing the selection of whiskey that vastly surpassed the typical magic proofs.

How interesting, I had thought.

'How interesting,' I had said.

She jumped, turning quickly with wand at the ready. This was all very fast, mind you, for a girl nearly purple with the cold and who obviously was without a brassiere.

Her face showed great surprise, at my presence or at her own incredibly quick response, I did not know. I do know that she became aware of my eyes traveling to things that let me know exactly how cold she was.

She had quickly wrapped her wandless arm around her breasts in an attempt to hide their obviousness; that only pushed her cleavage into a much more pleasant view. And there was no denying it was pleasant.

'Looking for a midnight snack, Miss Granger?'

She had furrowed her brows, propriety warring with her desire to spar.

'I was unaware that you had ownership to this cellar, Professor, as it's in Harry's possession,' she had bit back. Quarrelsome girl.

'Ah, does Mr. Potter know that you are partaking of his wares?'

She had no answer to that query.

'If you excuse me, Miss Granger, I will be sampling said wares as quickly as possible.' I left the double entendre hang. My earlier anger was returning, and I was finding myself as rebellious as the teenager in front of me.

As I moved past her, she attempted to further cover her chest, again unknowingly accentuating her cleavage.

I noticed she had transfigured some odd notion into a tumbler, which I charmed to duplicate itself. I went through the process of tapping the whiskey and filling our glasses past what was proper, handing her one.

She looked incredulously at the glass, then at me; repeat. This meeting was quickly becoming annoying.

'Just take the damn drink, Miss Granger. You are severely trying my patience.'

She bristled and took the glass, drinking it as if it were a shot served off of Madame Rosemerta's chest. I was both peeved at her blatant disrespect to the whiskey (even my earlier attempts to get pissed on whatever came my way was changed after seeing the fine selection) and impressed at her downing the liquid so quickly without any sign of distaste.

Her eyes quickly slid out of focus. I decided to test my observation.

'Is that flimsy cloth you'd call a nightdress for Mr. Weasley's benefit tonight?'

The girl's quick, involuntary grimace unexpectedly delighted me. I assumed it was more from the insinuation than the taste of the 600 year old whiskey she had just gulped.

'That is none of your business, Professor,' she said, her tipsiness not quite at the stage I had hoped. I drained my glass and quickly refilled both of ours.

'I would say that your nudity isn't my business either, but you appear to keep airing it,' I said, drawing her attention to her now forgotten lingerie. Nothing was left to the imagination due to the coldness of the dungeon, the thinness of the cloth, and the exquisite view that was her breasts.

What surprised me was that, after two glasses of whiskey, Miss Granger made no move to hide the view.

'It's too dark in here for you to see anything,' she said, with only slightly waning confidence.

'Ah, you assume I have poor eyesight in the dark when I am expected to function almost always in darkness?'

She stiffened slightly at my obvious reference to Death Eater activities.

'What do you do in that darkness?' she boldly questioned.

I, having already lost an edge due to my own four libations, did not rise to the bait and simply took her glass from her.

As I brushed her hand with mine, I believe _that_, second only to the dream, is what started it all.

I took the glass, noting, 'You have had too much already tonight, Miss Granger. I believe it is past your bedtime.'

She had again locked eyes with me for the second time that day and coyly responded, 'I'm of age. I can drink whatever I like and stay up as long as I like.'

I, foolishly…so foolishly, had responded to the rising tension.

'And what else are you of age to do?'

* * *

It was almost painful when we dizzily pressed together. Her lips quickly warmed from a chilly purple to a swollen red as my mouth met hers, frantically kissing.

The tumblers had fallen, her cold skin seeping through my warmer, woolen attire. Suddenly, it was too much, too hot. She seemed to sense that, working her slightly numb fingers to unbutton everything she came across, sliding everything off, leaving only my unbuttoned pants in her wake. I grabbed her roughly by the ass, sitting her on top of the casks so that she was eye level with me.

I pulled the strings of her already thin, loose night dress down her shoulders, letting them slip to hang on her slightly widened hips. Her breasts hung full, white marked with purple from the cold, her slightly puffy nipples fully pink and erect. I liked to think it was I, not the cold, who had that affect on her.

I became fully familiar with her chest, squeezing, grasping, pulling. She only pushed me further, one hand coming to entwine in my hair, another hand making work of the breast I was not enjoying. I bent my head, suckling, licking, and biting until I let each nipple slide from my mouth with a pop, leaving them as reddened and swollen as her parted, gasping lips.

Expecting her to remain, inexperienced, bent at the will of her new pleasure, I was surprised when she leaned from her cask-perch to suckle exquisitely on my neck, another hand sliding down my chest and toward the unbuttoned entrance to my pants. My cock only seemed to twitch harder against my already tented trousers. As her tongue descended to the niche between my neck and collar bone, I was nearly lost at the sensation… particularly as her tongue swirled its way north to suckle on my ear while her hand fully delved into my pants. I quickly worked my pants to slide to my feet, leaving me aching in my need.

Looking me directly in the eye, the chit actually licked her lips. I could tell our mutual inebriation was slowly wearing off in our frenetic foreplay.

Neither of us, in our growing soberness, appeared to question our impending actions.

I yanked up her nightdress, plunging two fingers into her ridiculously wet cunt. She sounded almost choked with the moans she made as I quickly stretched her tightness, feeling my own balls tighten as I grew impossibly hard at the sounds of her cries. This was it.

I quickly arched up into her, her legs spread wantonly as she threw her head back. By this point, I was not surprised to find she was hardly virginal and tried not to get distracted at the passing thought that I was resting in the same place as a Weasley. Her hands, gripping my ass to push me to the extent of her cervix, quickly rid me of any passing thoughts.

Her mewls of pleasure masked the scraping noise of her ass against the cask grain as her legs spread further, the pace of our fucking increasing. She would certainly be uncomfortable after our coupling, but she seemed to delight in the intensity of our positions. We were already close.

Her eyes suddenly drifted close, her mouth hung open in an almost silent scream as she suddenly pulsed around me. Her orgasm ripped through her, her hands making their way up my back to dig in almost painfully with her nails. She moaned no name, only the gibberish phrasings of "Yes…Yes!" Her sudden loudness only spurred me on, causing me to come with no words, only loud grunts, as she moaned at the feeling of my own release.

We lay for a moment, her quim and my cock twitching in the after-glow of what had just occurred.

She held me close to her, which for some odd reason had seemed more dangerous to me at the time than the obviously illegal act we had just committed. Which I had committed.

I had quickly pulled away, eyebrows furrowed as I slowly registered the actions that had just occurred. She seemed to do the same.

We silently dressed and left the dungeon, the tumblers cracked on the floor in our wake

* * *

**Note: **Again, I promise you are not reading anything illegal... everything will be explained in time.

I appreciate so much that so many of you are tracking me via Author or Story Alerts. I appreciate reviews even more! For all of you silently on the outskirts... please review! Hearing what you think gives me the impetus to keep posting. And for anyone else tuning in, this story is essentially complete. When I have the time to edit, then I post a chapter. So, keep reading!


	5. Chapter 5

No, I don't imagine you can publish that last bit, either. I'm sure it's the most fun you've had hearing a story though, correct?

Your blush is enough answer.

That early morning, my lust heightened rather than satisfied in the discovery of glorious half-drunken sex with _her_, had led to much contemplation. The previous night's discussion with Dumbledore, the realization that I had broken school policies by having sexual relations with a student….

At the time, I had thought my saving graces were both that we had been on summer holiday and that she was of age.

Except she hadn't been of age.

As the sun had slowly filtered through the closed blinds of my room, the realization had slowly filtered through my mind as well.

She was going into her sixth year, how could she possibly have been of age?

I remembered frantically searching the inventory of my thoughts, recalling her third year when she had been given "special privilege" to use a Time-Turner. Something about her age had seemed to stay lodged in my memory, hopefully as a way to save me from this perversion. When was her birth date?

It had all hit me at once. The 19th of September. She wouldn't be of age for another two weeks.

Two weeks was all that had been needed, all that had been needed to have turned this debacle into a slap on the wrist from Dumbledore. Instead…

But…the thought of Dumbledore's "favor," the thought of what I was being asked to do, the thought of any sort of semblance of future I had planned shattered…

I, in my self-serving hindsight, had reasoned that I was having what little life I had left torn from me by the person who was the closest thing to family I had ever known, besides…_her_… of course. I made myself innocent in my own mind.

Darkly, I realized Dumbledore needed me; he could not get rid of me.

He would not get rid of me.

Weeks later, like she was a Legilimens even more skilled than I, she seemed to read my false inner innocence as an opening for an intrusion the afternoon of her birthday, where Defense Against the Dark Arts was the last class of the day.

* * *

Dumbledore had brilliantly placed me in Defense Against the Dark Arts, feeding into the "infamously" cursed position. Even the other professors had quietly raised their eyebrows at the announcement in the first staff meeting of the year. I had sat there, gritting my teeth, as Dumbledore had made quite a show of "finally" giving me the position after years of my own personal research into the field. Slughorne had sat like as pompous a toad as Umbridge ever was, thinking that my change in position was simply to allow him to return to the school. He wasn't completely wrong.

I then proceeded to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts for almost three weeks with little incident. I awarded roughly 200 points to Slytherin because of Misters Malfoy and Zabini and took away as much from the other houses in the same period. I avoided all eye contact with Potter. I recoiled at the Weasley managing an E to place into the course.

The girl, on the other hand, had steadily answered questions as if nothing had happened. I had even (briefly) wondered if it had been a dream, just like the night that had caused my ridiculous interest in the first place.

It wasn't until the day that, ignoring her raised hand as usual, she blurted an answer out of turn. I had to deduct points, naturally. Locking eyes with her for what couldn't have been more than two moments, her pale lip rose slightly, as if she was keeping herself from laughing. Was this a taunt?

"Do you wish to enlighten us as to what is so humorous, Miss Granger?"

She responded, "I only found it funny that our text book did not mention bergamot oil as a common cloaking smell for dark potions."

What a straight face she had maintained, what an easily acceptable response she had doled out. I was no fool.

"Do you find yourself of such intelligence that you know more than the three separate masters who edited your text? A further fifteen points from Gryffindor for your 'intelligence.'"

"Sir, bergamot oil is often confused with the cited monarda balm!" she said with a bit more verve than was necessary. Draco had peered at her curiously; Potter turned his head slightly.

"Perhaps you can learn where your limited intelligence is wanted in detention. Tonight. Perhaps scrubbing the first year's defense targets will remind you of your…limited scholarship," I had emphasized.

Weasley had looked aghast, Potter muttering more loudly than necessary, "But it's her birthday!"

I smirked.

She ducked her head. In any other circumstance, I would have recognized this action as a sign of mortification on her part. But she had not hidden her face quick enough; she was clearly hiding a small smirk under that thick mass of curls she called hair.

The chit.

* * *

I had felt tense as she entered the room that night.

I continuously brushed the thought that kept screaming, "She is of age!" I ignored the fact that I had relieved myself to the thought of that night in the dungeons multiple times. She was a student; it was inappropriate. I had guilty thoughts of power dynamics, her like a pawn to me in the way I was thrown about like the Dark Lord and Dumbledore. She might think she wanted… _this_, but had I really known what I wanted when I became a Death Eater at her age?

Her age.

She would clean.

When she entered the large Defense classroom, her hair was tied back into a knot at the back of her head, revealing more of her face and neck than I was used to seeing. She had a long neck, a vulpine face. Her eyes were large despite the maturing narrowness her face was developing. She had her robe in her arms, the exposed uniform jarring to the more deviant thoughts I had only seconds earlier. I didn't speak, merely pointed to the stacks of dirtied "defense" targets in a corner of the room, her face unexpressive as she set her wand and robe on a table and went to work.

Two hours passed quietly. I graded papers; she scrubbed ash and gook silently, her white sleeves pushed above her elbows, curls coiling around her now loose bun. The exertion caused sweat to trickle down the back of her pale neck, my eyes unable to resist occasionally trailing their paths. Then, she paused and stripped off her gray sweater vest, revealing her white collared blouse and black skirt; the former was somewhat matted with sweat, clearly revealing a black bra beneath. Both the action of her undressing and the revelation of her lingerie removed any niggling doubt I had of her intentions.

I saw her glance back at me, as if daring me to question her uniform change. I resisted.

A further hour passed before she undid the knot at her hair, moving to gather up her varied curls. The movement of her hair splaying across her back caught my attention, the curls falling in spirals rather than kinks.

She knew perfectly well what she was doing… so it was inevitable when only a few more minutes passed before she was pressed against her workbench, her skirt hiked up revealing nothing (which only aroused me further) and us spent moments later from the hot release of such tightly wound erotic tension.

I believe only a few more minutes had passed before Granger, ever the Gryffindor, commented, "Well… now what?"

I looked at her seriously.

"Now, we dress."

* * *

After we were clothed, we both remained standing in place, Granger's rag left haphazardly on the edge of the table. A slight sheen of sweat graced her rosy cheeks. She looked so young.

"I'm legally of age now," she said, as if sensing my thoughts. Again, a slight worry of Legilimency tickled the edges of my mind. She hadn't been trained, had she?

"You are a student." I should end this.

"I wasn't under your care in the summer," she said reasonably. I flinched; she had to use the word "care" and remind me of my dishonor, the bastardizing of my profession. How had I become a lecherous old man before 40?

She saw the flinch, but logically thought it was for another issue I was also trying not to think on.

"I was _technically_ of age over the summer… sir," she added as an afterthought, cocking her head.

I snorted.

"And how is that?"

She seemed shifty and made to open her mouth.

"You are still a student." I clung to the obvious, and interrupted whatever half-arsed means of excuse she would make. I was guilty; as you can see with my… current state of living, I do not shy away from my own guilt. Regardless of her age, regardless of whether Dumbledore would be appalled... I had broken my code of conduct.

She chewed her lip and moved her eyes away from mine. An uneasy silence filled the space between us.

"But you are my professor."

I nodded, confirming our predilections.

"I could be held responsible, too."

"Don't be ridiculous," I had spat, "I'm abusing my position of authority by…fraternizing with you."

"I'm of age; would it look like that to the Wizengamot?"

I froze. She had thought of Azkaban, as well?

She stepped closer, allowing me to see the flecks of amber in her otherwise solidly brown eyes.

"I won't say a word."

I tried not to grimace. I felt as if our situation was playing out into every sordid tale between a student and teacher. I felt… guilty, at wrapping her in a subterfuge that involved me fucking a teenage girl because I had done so in a dream.

"Why?" I asked.

"I'm an adult. I chose to do what I've done. How could I possibly report you for something I violated as well?"

This interaction perhaps changed my mindset permanently about the Granger girl. The lust? That had been purely physical. At those moments, though… I began to respect her. Even with her lofty, Gryffindor language. Responsibility was something I knew well in my life; it… helped to hear that she was of the same mentality.

"You would hardly end up in Azkaban. The Board of Governors would immediately sack me; you would be simply told to keep events quiet. No teacher would look at you the same."

I stared at her. She chewed her lip again. The habit brought me right back down to realizing she was still a schoolgirl.

This would become the endless conflict I would have in our affair: Granger, with the insecurities of a schoolgirl, but the mind and mouth of an aged crone.

I also realized I was starting to rationalize too many excuses for what we were doing.

"What do you expect of all this, Miss Granger?"

Her teeth were sucked quickly into her mouth; I had left an opening for us to continue, something she may not have expected.

"I…" she hesitated. I tried to dissuade her, for her or my benefit, I'm not sure.

"There will be no… romance," I inflected as much disdain as I possibly could. Let her see her old professor.

She seemed startled, "Oh, of course not! I… don't know what to say of what I expect. Usually I plan things out very thoroughly; I even planned tonight, but… I can't seem to plan… _this_ out." Her hands gestured half-heartedly between us, referencing something so intangible she could not place words upon it.

After her quick stream of babbling, she remained quiet, aware she was speaking too much. An awareness I hoped she would bring into the classroom.

The classroom.

"There can be no displays as you had earlier today," I warned.

She nodded, the lip again between her white teeth. When had they become so straight?

"Then…we may continue." I nodded, as if we were discussing a research project, or an essay, and the discussion was closed.

I tried not to notice the excited brightening of her eyes as I exited, as dramatically as possible.

I tried not to feel a foreign sense of excitement in my chest.

* * *

**Note:** Sorry for the slightly longer gap in updates. As I've said, this story is roughly 50-75% complete, and I edit before each section goes up. I'm sick, so I had time to edit and publish. Many of you keep mentioning a dislike for the "Time-Turner" trope of HG/SS fics, and I have to agree. I find the issue has become sort of an easy out way of having student/teacher fics not taken down from FF or Live Journal ;) With that being said, I've approached Hermione's aging a slightly different way than I've ever read, though it will involve time… after all, how else could she be aged "just" enough? Look for that in coming chapters, as it will be pivotal to Snape's later trial.

Also FYI: Monarda is an herb very similar to the Bergamot orange, hence the "plausibility" of Hermione's issue in Snape's class.

Again, I ask all of you nice people "favoriting" this story and putting it on you alerts: please review! Without direct feedback, it's hard for me to gauge how people feel about this story, or what areas I can improve (especially when what reviews I get, they seem to be complaints or rants about something not even in my story!). Please review! It is the ~monarda~ balm to a writer's soul ;)


	6. Chapter 6

The next two months were spent with a great deal less tension than the first few weeks of the term. She looked covertly at me at meals. I subtly followed her through the halls.

We went no longer than a week without ruthlessly fucking.

Sometimes in the classroom for a feigned detention, sometimes in my office, and once (recklessly) in the prefect's bathroom.

It's difficult to articulate what it was between us. I am not without emotion, nor have I ever been, much to the surprise of many, I'm sure. It was there, though… the quiet build of emotion for Granger in the constant ruckus of war, subterfuge, and rough sex.

The first month had been nothing more than that: sex.

Our eyes would meet at some point, and we'd inevitably find ourselves naked mere hours later.

Once, after this type of exchange in the classroom, she had brashly asked me a question so unrelated to the topic that I took points without thinking. She looked at me expectedly. I had warned her of making such displays in the classroom.

Needless to say, that is where her detentions spawned. I cannot say she was scrubbing cauldrons.

Other times, we'd pass each other in the hall, brown eyes glancing up from the normal ten books or so she'd be holding. An empty classroom would soon be filled with her bent over a desk only minutes later.

Worst of all, she had left a note at the bottom of an ever-lengthy scroll turned in at the end of class. I returned from a late night summons, unsure of finding anything as I entered the prefect's bathroom, unaware of anyone watching me.

She was there, of course. Wards were placed, but none so stringent as to make us completely unnoticeable. I had the passing thought to cast one of my own, but Granger seemed… aroused by the thought of getting caught.

Everyone has their fetishes. It was a bit of a delight to find Granger with such a kink-but then, someone who had broken every rule in Hogwarts by twelve was like to grow into a rule-skirting nymphomaniac.

In a month where every waking moment was filled with thoughts of the coming war, the slow trickle of black up Dumbledore's hand, and more frequently called Death Eater meetings…

That October seems almost blissful in retrospect. Nubile flesh, absolutely unquestioning, no thought of reprimand.

I had never rebelled so much against society; I had never been so lax with my actions.

But then November came.

* * *

She stopped hastily putting on clothes and leaving without a second glance at me.

In the chill of those early weeks, Granger began putting on those cursed knee-socks too slowly, buttoning her shirt too pain-stakingly.

Things had been too easy. I would watch her, silently. Waiting for the change.

It came on a Saturday morning when most everyone was at Hogsmeade. She had doubled back to my office, her friends unaware that she was not, in fact, at the bookshop.

Knowing both Dumbledore and McGonagall to be absent, I couldn't resist taking her right over my desk. I had raised her legs well above my shoulders, her moans echoing loudly in a room I had only barely passed a silencing spell over. I moved slowly over her, savoring the lack of haste we so often expelled with each other. It was unlikely to see anyone other than Filch or a second year lost in the corridor.

With that unusual stretch of time, Granger took to it with the slowest process of dressing I'd ever seen.

She slowly pulled on her socks; achingly tied her tie.

I nearly rolled my eyes. This "slow" dressing had been an obvious sign of her prolonging our time together. I could only image what question she was dying to ask.

"Were you hurt… recently?"

That was unexpected. I narrowed my eyes as she met mine, almost nervously. Amazing that she would still be nervous after I'd plundered her from every orifice.

"Why?"

She bit her lip. "You've… uh, you've been… shaky?" she seemed at a loss. "Everytime we've, had sex," she swallowed, "your fingers and arms have twitched after. Until I leave."

She paused, looked expectantly. I gave no answer.

"It looks like _Crucio_."

"It was."

She inhaled audibly.

"Are you a mediwitch?"

"Well, no sir, of course not-"

"Then what business is it of yours to diagnose me?"

"I fucking have sex with you! You look like you're in pain but you haven't stopped touching me!"

The expletive and the bits of spit flying out of her mouth caught me unaware.

My eyes must have widened, because she only went on faster.

"How am I supposed to keep this up if you're in pain? I don't want to tax your body further, or, or… I don't know. Distract you. Somehow. You've come to me late at night, and I know where you've come from, and you'll smell and shake and be rough. I don't care if you're rough, and I know what you need to do. But I can't. I can't do this if you're hurting. _Crucio_ recovery is supposed to be a week's worth of rest followed by gradual exercise!"

The last bit came out as such a bookish reprimand, I almost laughed at her using the exact same tone with me as I'd seen her do to countless students.

She paused to catch her breath from her tirade.

"Granger."

She looked at me warily.

"We will continue." She looked unsure; a slim question of consent sliced through my brain.

"If you still so desire," I added.

"I… I do. I don't want to hurt you."

The idea that a seventeen year old girl was routinely having illegal sex with her professor and was afraid of physically hurting him…

I laughed.

"Granger. It is quite impossible for you to… cause me pain. Annoyance, yes. Irritation, absolutely."

Her nostrils flared at the unexpected insults. I continued.

"Desire, as well."

Her eyes widened. We did not speak of attraction. Or anything, for that matter.

"I do not take my duties lightly, to the school, or the Order. I would not be doing this if I had no benefit from it."

"But-"

"It is a benefit to me. You do not harm me. It is your decision to continue, but under the knowledge now that you do not cause me undue harm. Leave."

She pursed her lips, whiteness around flushed red. She left.

I sat awake for several hours that night, wondering how I had gone from a lecherous fiend to a patient of study for a teenage girl.

She came to me after class the following Tuesday; she pushed me down upon the floor, riding me so that, to be fair, I exerted minimal effort. She had stripped herself of that little tight shirt, her full breasts bouncing enticingly as she continued to wear her skirt.

I pulsed into her and she immediately placed a hand on my biceps, silently mouthing a count of how many twitches followed.

At the bottom of her essay turned in on that Thursday, she wrote, "Mediwizard, Terrance Middleton, is in the midst of researching the benefits of cinnamon and shrivelfig on the vascular affects of Cruciatus."

Things had already begun changing between us. I'm not sure how I had missed it.

* * *

"Severus."

It was the first of December, and we were naked in the Room of Requirement. That had been far too risky, in retrospect, but she had insisted. I had met her there at roughly one in the morning, her completely nude underneath Potter's blasted invisibility cloak. We had entered the door after the customary three turns down the corridor; she had surprised me. We were on a rolling moor, dusky pinks lining the sky to mimic a sunrise; a blanket softly crushed the tall grasses. There was a basket full of food.

I had been almost silent at the time. She appeared uncharacteristically nervous. But then, she was always nervous; her only tell to one with the knowledge was the chewing of her lower lip. Her peers never noted how anxious she was in every task she did, always with the self-inflicted pressure to excel in everything she did. Even with me.

I had picked her up, the cloak still over her arm falling as I pushed her onto the blanket, making her weep within moments of latching onto a nipple. I made her come twice with my mouth before a third time with my cock.

Silent minutes had passed before she had said it. Firmly, like she had consistently done with the Dark Lord's name in the presence of others. A forced inflection to give strength to the words.

"Severus."

I had turned my head to her, our legs and strands of hair the only things touching as our bodies cooled from the heat of sex. She looked at me; the fierce expression of her eyes nullifying the chew of her bottom lip.

"Yes?"

She pursed her lips at my drawl.

"I should call you by your name," she seemed to insist.

"I cannot condone it."

"Why?" she had muttered, her hair bouncing with her tits as she sat up in anger.

"What if you slip up? What if five points from Gryffindor results in my name cursed on your breath in the classroom? It is a liability."

She seemed to fume; I remained calm, my eyes locking on her still puckered nipples.

"Are you staring at my breasts?" she asked, irritably.

"It appears I am," I smirked.

"This is exactly why I should be saying your name. Look at us," she gestured wildly. "You're my professor. I'm… I'm a prefect, for heaven's sake! What are we doing here?"

I felt my stomach drop slightly. I hadn't thought we would ever bring some sort of definition to…us. We had connected physically so easily; it had seemed natural that we should just _continue_ to connect. A summons or a meeting with the dying old wizard at the school… they had all seemed so small when I was fucking her. When she was grasping me as if she would die if I let go. I hadn't wanted to let go. I hadn't wanted to think about it.

My silence was stretching seconds into tenuous minutes.

"Severus," she repeated.

"Only in privacy. Even then… I cannot say I agree with it. The walls, even here, may have ears."

She snorted. "That hasn't stopped you from fucking me until I scream."

I practically purred in response, "Yes, perhaps we should test how loud you can go, Granger."

She looked at me seriously, "Will you call me Hermione?"

I couldn't; as frightened as I was of her crossing a further line in addressing me by my first name… to bring her sweet name across my tongue was even more dangerous. What if I called it in my sleep; I breathed it through a breath of _Crucio_ induced pain? I felt almost terrified sometimes for even thinking her name.

"I can't."

"Just once," she pleaded.

I remained silent, though my hold on her seemed to increase. As if this were some test I was failing with her. She wasn't falling boneless into my arms as she always did.

I was losing control everywhere around me; I could not control the curse that wracked Dumbledore's body; I could not control the foolish Malfoys with their vows and misplaced trusts. I had to remain in control here; bringing forth pleasure from Granger brought me a sense of relief I had not thought possible. I could not let go of my control here, too.

"Severus…" I sighed in response to her stubborn will to say my name, but she continued, "…What's to become of us? What is this?"

"You enjoy it. Why complicate it? The school year will end and you'll connect with Weasley." The words made me feel sick. That was new.

"Why would the end of the year matter?" She said quietly.

I turned my face to look at her angled profile, her eyes locked on a particularly long blade of grass.

"Granger. This can't... won't last forever. You are young. The McLaggen boy is already after you. Merlin, I'm sure every blasted teacher here will make you Head Girl. You will not need me as a distraction anymore."

"What if you're not just a distraction?" she said shakily.

We had grown from almost silent sex to far more complex conversations than I could have anticipated in the months we had taken to each other… but never emotionally. Potions texts. A spell theory of hers. My opinion of Lavendar Brown's recent escapades (much to her amusement). Never…We never talked about _us_. I certainly hadn't considered an "us."

But then, I certainly wasn't bedding anyone else.

"Granger… enjoy what we have while we have it. Being a know-it-all grows tiresome; do not analyze everything in front of you." A dark joke from a spy, as I analyzed every tense muscle she had at that moment, wondering where this conversation was leading.

"What if I don't wish to be Head Girl," she said brashly, her flushed face turning to me.

"Why wouldn't you be?"

She shrugged, ever defiant, and threw back my words, "Why would the end of this year signal an end to us? Why not now? Why not the end of next school year when I graduate?"

My jaw must have clenched. I forgot too often how clever she was.

"You haven't answered my question, Granger."

"Neither have you," she said firmly.

We stared at one another. Something about the rigidity of her shoulders gave me pause.

Had we both uncovered something about the other inadvertently? At the time, she had used the one thing that could drive me to distraction.

"Sleep with me," she cooed as her arms wrapped around me, preventing an observation of her face.

So we had.

The next few weeks, something had yet again changed between us. She had come to me only once; I had sought her out not at all. I didn't feel as if our…escapades… were quite over. Something else entirely had changed between us.

She looked at me more often, for one. I found myself lingering behind her in the classroom, coming uncomfortably close to her as she dueled an enchanted target or cast curses at Weasley or Potter.

We had crossed another boundary.

* * *

**NOTE:** I had gotten caught up in some "real life" writing projects. Oops. Like I said, much of this story has been written, but I do come back and touch up, diminish, expand, etc.

In response to some comments: some have said it seems OOC for Snape to reveal so much to an interviewer. For the purposes of not giving too much away, I only ask for some suspension of disbelief. I thank those that find my writing of him more in character, and only recommend you overlook the overall device for this story (an interview) until later chapters. ;)

As for Hermione's age, it does not involve a time-turner, but something canonical I've never seen anyone touch on. It will come.

More of this story will come with the coming holidays. Thanks for reading, as always, and I appreciate all reviews. Constructive criticism can appear both negative and positive, and I welcome both.


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